Free Al Capone Does My Homework by Gennifer Choldenko Page B

trauma of the fire.”
    “You need help watchin’ her? Make sure she don’t get in trouble?”
    “She’s scared,” my father tells him. “Not dangerous.”
    “The missus says she isn’t going to her school anymore.”
    “School holiday this week,” my father explains as my mom pads down the stairs in her
     slippers.
    “Darby, hello.” She pulls her bathrobe tight around herself. “What’s the trouble?”
    “Nothing, honey. Go on back to bed.”
    “Why is Darby here?” she asks.
    “Darby was checking on us is all. Just being neighborly.”
    “I see.” My mother gives Darby a smile that would cool molten lava.
    “Guess you’re all set, then.” Darby salutes. “You need something, give a holler.”
    “Sure thing, Darby, thank you.” My father smiles as if he means it.
    “Why is it his business whether our lights are on or off?” my mother whispers as soon
     as the door is shut.
    “It isn’t unreasonable for him to check on us,” my father tells her.
    “Don’t kid yourself. He’s hanging around hoping for a problem.”
    “Helen, you don’t know that.”
    “Like heck I don’t.”
    “Dad,” I say, “Nat’s going back to school on Sunday night, right?”
    “Of course,” my mom says.
    “And she’ll be able to sleep there, right?” I ask.
    “Right,” my father says. “We just have to get through this week.”
    “She asleep now?” my mom asks hopefully.
    “Almost,” Dad says.
    “Ahhh.” My mother’s voice is flat as a penny. “My turn. Go on, get some sleep.”
    If only I’d stayed up the night of the fire, maybe none of this would have happened.
     Could my mistake have caused all this?
    • • •
    In the morning I drag myself out of bed and peek in Nat’s room. Natalie is wide awake.
     My mother is curled up in Nat’s bed. How can one sister cause so much trouble?
    When Nat’s upset, she likes her purple blanket. We didn’t find it when we got our
     stuff, but maybe we just missed it.
    Before I even eat breakfast, I head down to #2E. Already the place looks a bit better.
     The burned-out stove and the icebox are gone. The kitchen cupboards are being rebuilt.
     The hall closet is cleaned out. The ashes in my room are swept into a neat pile. I
     sit on the floor and begin sifting the dirt, sawdust, and ashes. I find the spine
     of my baseball book, a piece of a drawing of a sphinx I did for a project on the Egyptians,
     the metal end of a pencil, a half-burned slipper, a lamp cord, and the heel of an
     old sock.
    Natalie’s room is almost untouched. A lot of her stuff is still in there, but we already
     brought her everything we thought might comfort her. Trying to fix Natalie is like
     trying to part your hair without a mirror. It’s impossible to know if you made a straighter
     part or a more crooked one.
    I head back to my room and sift through the pile again. An old can of tooth powder,
     part of a shoelace, the back of a frame, and then my finger grazes something soft.
     A piece of her purple blanket!
    I slip it in my pocket, a big grin on my face. I’ll bring this to Nat and miraculously
     she’ll let go of the counting and rocking. She’ll sleep easily each night. She’ll
     make eye contact with everyone. And then I’ll find out who or what started the fire,
     so that no one will suspect her again.
    Sounds good, anyway. But dreams always do.
    On the way out, I spot my blue homework notebook! The one with the essay in it. It’s
     just sitting out here. That’s strange. How could I have missed it before? I put the
     notebook under my arm and head back, an even bigger grin on my face. I won’t have
     to do the paper again! Doing your homework twice is like puking, then having to eat
     your own vomit.
    When I get home, I go straight to Nat’s room to give her the piece of blanket, my
     chest puffed up with hope.
    Nat takes the swatch of blanket and smells it. Then she hands it back to me.
    “It doesn’t smell right, does it . . . but Mom can wash